


The Frightened Inch Between Our Skins

by britomart_is



Series: The Air Moves In [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Come Sharing, Cunnilingus, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, Emotionally Repressed Winchesters, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Frottage, Happy Winchesters, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Requited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Sexual Frustration, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Sublimating, Sublimating Feelings, Threesome, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, denial ain't just a river in egypt, triangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britomart_is/pseuds/britomart_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "The Air Moves In to Fill the Spaces Where My Body's Been."<br/>--</p><p>So, now that Dean knows what Sam’s been up to, they’re fucking like bunnies. They play footsie under the Formica table in the diner while Dean eats waffles, they make out in the backseat when they’re tired of driving, and Dean wants to know if they can have deep-fried Twinkies at the reception when they get gay married in Massachusetts. </p><p>Or, well. That's how Sam had imagined it.</p><p>It actually goes like this:</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Frightened Inch Between Our Skins

**Author's Note:**

> How delightful that in the years between originally writing this story and now, the reference to gay marriage only being legal in MA has become so dated! I'm leaving it unedited as a historical reference point.

So, now that Dean knows what Sam’s been up to, they’re fucking like bunnies. They play footsie under the Formica table in the diner while Dean eats waffles, they make out in the backseat when they’re tired of driving, and Dean wants to know if they can have deep-fried Twinkies at the reception when they get gay married in Massachusetts. 

Or, well. That’s how Sam had imagined it. 

It actually goes like this: there’s a girl riding Sam’s cock. Dean must have told her how this works, because she walked right out of the motel room after fucking Dean, opened the back door of the Impala, and climbed right in. 

So now—there’s a girl riding Sam’s cock. And she’s _stacked_ , with a good curve of hip for Sam to hang onto when he’s pulling her down on his dick, pushing up inside of her and making her gasp, touching sweet spots she didn’t even know she had. And sweet Jesus, Sam needs to hang on, try to get some control back, because as she grinds against him, moaning and arching, this girl won’t stop talking. 

“It’s real nice of your _friend_ ,” she purrs, “sharing with his _wingman_. You boys must be real close.” 

Sam shuts his eyes and concentrates on the vinyl of the seat beneath him, how it’s a little gross with all his sweat, how cramped it is in here, how the whole car must be shaking with their fucking and if anyone walks through the parking lot they’ll get a free show. He concentrates on _anything_ except what she’s saying, because if she keeps talking about Dean, this is going to be over very, very soon. 

She rises up on her knees, strong thighs pressing against Sam’s sides, until just the tip of him is inside, teasing them both. And she pauses. Sam groans, tries to pull her back down, but she resists with a mischievous quirk to her lips. 

“What was his name again? Your friend?” Sam’s ready to answer, anything to get her moving again, but never gets a chance. “Oh, that’s right,” she says. “ _Dean_.” And her hips slam back down. 

Sam’s whole body reacts, arches, tries to push up further but there’s nowhere left to go, their bodies close and warm and messy as she rocks on his dick, uses him to get herself off and still, still she _talks_. 

“He’s a real nice guy, your Dean.” She’s starting to pant between her words now, starting to get close. “So attentive, how he touched me and licked me and made me scream before he fucked me.”

Sam pushes a hand between their bodies, fingers on her clit to make her shudder, keep her quiet. She looks almost pained now, up and down on Sam’s cock, rocking even harder till the shocks are creaking, but she’s not done with Sam yet. 

“But it’s the funniest thing—” Her eyelashes flutter. Her throat works. “—What he said. When he came.” She has a wicked little smile.

“Tell me,” Sam says. His mouth is dry, and something is building inside of him, inside his chest, speeding his pulse, something much more than an orgasm. “ _Tell me_.”

She leans forward, hips undulating and making Sam shudder and grip her, try to push _deeper_. She’s so close she can whisper into his ear, a secret just for him. 

“ _Sam_.”

The something building inside Sam explodes.

#

The car smells like sex. Not like Dean doesn’t clean it obsessively—he can drive a hundred miles in a day and it’ll still be gleaming—so he’s got to be letting it go intentionally. The car smells like every girl Sam’s fucked here in the last six months, and it smells like Sam.

Dean finishes his cherry Slushie and the straw makes a horrible gurgle in the empty cup. 

“Stop it,” Sam says, not even looking up from the obituaries. He leans his head against the cool glass of the window, tired for no good reason. It’s been too long. He needs—well, he just _needs_. 

One-handed, eyes still on the road, Dean sets the cup aside and flicks the straw at Sam, sending drops of cherry goop flying. 

“Hey!” Sam’s covered in droplets of red syrup. “Dude.” He feels it drip from his forehead to his cheek. 

Dean’s grinning, the jackass, glances over at his handywork. 

Sam narrows his eyes. He takes a breath, and when he lets it out he drops his voice down low. “Look what you did,” he says. “I’m a _mess_.” He sees Dean tense up, still watching. Sam thumbs the drop of cherry from his cheek, sucks it into his mouth. "Hmm," he says. "Oh." Groans appreciatively. "It's good." 

Dean knows perfectly well that Sam hates cherry flavor, and any minute now they’re going to drift into oncoming traffic and die in a blaze of steel and flame and unresolved sexual tension, because Dean’s looking at Sam, not the road. 

Sam watches Dean swallow hard, then turn determinedly to look forward again. 

“You, uh.” Dean’s voice is casual, but he’s gripping the steering wheel tight. “Want to go out tonight? Grab a beer, hustle some pool?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Okay.” His mouth tastes like cherry. It tastes good.

 

The bar’s a far cry from their usual, with a steady bass beat thumping out its doors into the night. Inside the clientele are younger and, well, _hotter_ than the good ol’ boys who populate the podunk dives they’re used to. They split up inside and Sam leans against the bar, drinks his beer without really tasting it. A woman tries to strike up a conversation, then another and another, but Sam politely deflects their attentions, getting hard just standing there while he waits to see who Dean will find. 

Sam shifts, wants to reach down and adjust himself. He’s getting impatient, getting pissed because he can see Dean across the room just talking to some guy, and if Dean doesn’t find a girl for them soon Sam’s going to—do something drastic. 

And then Dean starts leading the guy toward the back door. 

Sam drops his beer. It spills, shatters. “Sorry,” Sam murmurs, but he’s already maneuvering through the crowd, watching the back door swing closed. 

There’s an alcove there, before the stairs that lead down into the alley, and Sam lingers, listens to the voices. Can’t make out the words, but Dean’s voice has that low tone in it, one Sam knows from years of Dean sweet-talking his way into girls’ panties. 

Then there’s rustling, clothing being pulled and shifted, and Sam listens so hard he thinks he can hear a zipper go down, but maybe he imagines it. A slick sound, and Sam desperately grabs himself, pressing painfully through the denim, _don’t come don’t come don’t come yet_. A pause, then a long, low groan. Sam’s head thuds back against the brick, he presses himself against the wall like it can hold him up. He shuts his eyes and _listens_. 

There must be a God, because the other guy is quiet, breathing harshly but not running his mouth off. All Sam can hear is labored breath, skin on skin, the wet messy sound of fucking, sometimes a grunt, a moan, an undignified sound that Dean probably doesn’t know he makes. Sam’s chest heaves, he can’t get enough air, he’s going to die here in this alley all because Dean is fucking a guy and apparently _loving it_. 

Dean cries out loud when he comes, sounds almost surprised, almost pained, like his orgasm is tearing some part of him loose. 

Sam breathes, tries to find the strength in his legs. He hears Dean’s unmistakable footsteps leaving the alley, all bowlegs and boots. The other man is walking now too, and Sam pushes off the wall, moves _now_ before the man can leave. Sam gets his first good look and sees that he’s hot, this guy Dean chose. A little older, well-built and almost as tall as Sam.

“Hey.” Sam grabs his arm, firm but friendly.

The guy turns, cautious, sizing Sam up. “Hey.”

Sam lets his hand relax on the guy’s arm, but doesn’t remove it. “I, uh.” This part is still awkward. “I heard you back there. Sounded like you were having fun.” 

The man’s still wary. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. He licks his lips, sees the man’s eyes drop to his mouth. “Sounded real good.” Sam drops his hand to his erection, big obvious tent in his jeans, and he strokes. His hips roll against the touch, need to be moving. 

The guy looks a little incredulous, like he just won the fucking lottery—the kind of lottery where two hot men climb right into your lap and start grinding—and he grins wide and easy. “God _damn_.”

Sam’s got to move fast, got to do this, _needs_ to get inside where it’s warm and tight and all opened up from Dean’s cock. He manhandles the guy around to face the wall, hands braced against it. Sam lays his hands over the other mans’, holds them to the brick, and presses all along his back, both of them still clothed but already grinding like they’re fucking. 

“Is this how he did it?” Sam rasps, his voice disappeared on him. “Is this how he fucked you?”

Sam can feel the man’s deep laugh rumbling against his chest. “Kid, I fucked _him_.”

“You—right,” Sam says faintly. He has to close his eyes and breathe deeply for a moment.

The actual fucking goes fast. Sam gets his dick inside and he’s shaking, falling apart, hips pistoning, closes his eyes and feels the solid male body pressed against him. It’s been only minutes when the guy breaks his quiet, groans, Sam remembers the noise Dean made when he came, and then it’s all over. Sam tries to catch his breath. “Oh, God.”

The man’s being patient, pushing back against Sam still, and Sam’s brain isn’t quite working yet but he remembers his manners, so he pulls against the guy’s hip, turns him, and drops to his knees. 

Sam sucks greedily, tastes latex and come from the condom the guy must have pulled off after—oh Jesus—after fucking Dean. 

The guy looks a little dazed, afterward. Sam pulls himself together and heads back to the street. Dean is right there, leaning against the front wall of the bar and smoking a cigarette, something he usually does only when extraordinarily drunk. His mouth falls open when he sees Sam, and Sam is suddenly aware of what he must look like, still breathing heavily, all rumpled and pink-faced and sweaty curls of hair against his neck.

Dean stares. Sam stares back. He can’t move. This is it this is it—

Dean drops his cigarette, snuffs it out beneath his boot. “Got to get going.” His eyes are on the sidewalk now. 

Well, fuck.

#

The next two weeks are pretty damn surreal.

At night, Dean’s still feeding Sam, jerking off shamelessly in his own bed and letting Sam lick up the mess in his hand. Sam—wants. He _wants_. More. But Dean seems uncannily attuned to Sam’s impatience, and every time Sam starts to get restless, starts to think maybe they need to talk about this—those nights will find Dean standing silently in the dark, Sam hungrily cleaning his hand, taking what Dean gives him. 

In the day, Dean’s the same asshole he’s always been, only more so. He’s fucking _annoying_ , flicking at Sam’s ear when he’s trying to read, singing loud and off-key in the shower, picking his nose in the car and trying to wipe it on Sam when he complains. It’s a constant barrage of big brother behavior, like Dean’s telling him, ‘Remember me, your _brother_? That irritating sonofabitch who shares your genetic material, related by blood, illegal in all fifty states?’ 

Sam doesn’t want him any less. 

Two weeks after the guy in the alley and Sam’s starting to get impatient again, Dean’s feeding him almost every night now. So Sam isn’t surprised when Dean looks up from cleaning his gun to say, “Wanna go out tonight?”

Yes. He does. 

 

Sam trails behind Dean and the girl as they walk back to the motel, far enough back she won’t notice with him. She’s cute, a tiny redhead who flirted outrageously with Sam back at the club. Sam thinks about what will happen in the room, wonders what Dean will leave for him—maybe he’ll get a taste.

He flirted a little back at the club, got her used to him, made sure she was interested. Charmed her before Dean took over and sealed the deal. 

Sam’s wishing he’d left a newspaper in the car, something to do while he waits because sometimes—well, sometimes Dean can go for a good long while. Send the girls out to Sam all blissed-out and pliable. Sam’s thinking about the newspaper, so it takes him a moment to notice—

Dean’s standing in the door of their room, looking right at Sam. He arches a brow, impatient big-brother look. “Well? You comin’ or not?”

Sam’s mind is still trying to process that, but his legs are carrying him forward. Dean shuts the door behind him. The girl’s already undressing, the very picture of self-assurance. She smiles at Sam when she sees him, and Sam’s a little too stunned to smile back just yet. He takes his clothes off. Sits back on his bed and waits for his cue. 

Dean doesn’t look at Sam as he strips, when he crawls onto the other bed and pushes the girl into the mattress. He says something low and quiet in her ear and she laughs delightedly, wraps her legs around his waist. Sam watches as Dean pushes into her, filling her up all slow and careful. 

And it turns out, all Dean’s fucking bragging is pretty much true. He’s an _artist_ in bed, exploring her body till he finds the places where she needs his hand, where she wants his mouth, when she just wants the weight of his body on top of her. He plays her body expertly till she’s keening, whispering _please please don’t stop_. 

Sam studies Dean. The perfect pale curve of his spine, the lean muscle of his thigh flexing as he moves. Learns that he likes the long, deliberate thrusts, pulling out and letting her really _feel_ it when he slides back in. That when he’s really starting to lose it, feeling so good he can hardly stand it, he’ll push his face into her neck, into the pillow, overwhelmed. And Sam sees him come. That final push, how his body snaps tight with tension, then eases.

The girl is still coming back down to earth, moving slowly like she has to rediscover how her body works. She glances over at Sam, then back at Dean. “Hey, should I—”

Dean gets one last unsubtle grope in before he says, “Yeah. Go.”

She approaches Sam and then hesitates, like she’s trying to decide which part of her new toy she wants to play with first. Sam can wrap his hands so far around her waist when he guides her onto the bed. She swings a leg over his body and straddles him, right over his cock. Sam feels her warm and wet, teasing him with what she’d feel like inside, and he can’t help rubbing up against her, but—he has other plans. 

“Not like that,” he says, smiling. “Like this.” 

One hand behind each of her knees and it’s easy to pull her up, settle her over his face. 

“Oh my God,” she says weakly. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hears from the other bed. Sam’s eyes flutter shut. Can’t look over at Dean. Focus. 

Her cunt is just inches away from him, her thighs trembling as she tries to hold herself up. And it’s a fucking beautiful sight to behold—her pretty pink folds are still darkened with pleasure, spread open and inviting, glistening slick. _Messy_. Sam wants to be messy, too. A line of Dean’s come is running down her thigh, so Sam licks it up. She makes a sound in her throat. 

With a pleased hum, Sam nuzzles her, gets his face right up in her pussy. The smell alone has his eyes fluttering shut, tangy girl-smell and the scent of Dean he knows so well. “So pretty,” Sam says. “Sit on me.” He licks her lightly. “Right on my face.” 

She lowers herself just a little, still trying not to rest any weight on him, so Sam hooks his arms over her legs and pulls her down, making her yelp and then writhe as his mouth immediately goes to work. Sam is _hungry_. 

And this—this is perfect, Sam doesn’t know why he never thought of it before. She’s losing her self-consciousness quickly, hands gripping the headboard, and Sam licks her clit steadily till she’s riding his face, rocking against him however it feels good. And Sam, Sam’s just trying to keep up, licking her all over, finding her clit sometimes and giving a little suck. 

The best thing is how messy Sam’s getting—her wetness is all over his face, _everywhere_ , slick on his chin, smudged all the way up his cheekbone, and Sam can lick Dean’s come right out of her, lick it all up. Sam’s hips push up in the air uselessly and he groans against her, tension building higher and higher in his body as he licks her clean. 

The girl’s coming, shuddering against him and he’s thinking _yes please now now_ when he feels a hand close around him, sweet merciful _friction_. Sam sees the girl's hands still clutching the headboard, does the math, bucks _hard_ against Dean’s grip, and then he’s climbing right up to the edge of pleasure and falling off of it. He has to turn his face into the girl's soft thigh, hiding, too much, overwhelmed, as his breath comes back in coarse animal gasps. 

Sam is vaguely aware that the girl is putting her clothes on and leaving, feels a kiss on his sticky cheek and hears her giggle as she grabs Dean’s ass on the way out. 

Dean, whose hand is covered in Sam’s come. Sam listens to his own heartbeat. Dean flicks the lights off and comes to stand beside Sam’s bed. Sam lowers his mouth to Dean’s hand.

#

Sam tries to get him to talk over breakfast. Dean can’t run away if he hasn’t finished his bacon. Bacon trumps avoidance.

“We’re allowed to have what we want,” Sam says. Life always screws them, takes everything away from them. It’s unfathomable, why Dean won’t let them have this. Perverse little fucker.

Dean snorts. “You have no idea what I want.” 

And that’s half-true, mostly true, Dean’s fucking inscrutable, but Sam thinks—he thinks about Dean standing in the dark, breathing hard with dilated pupils and a flush spreading from his cheeks down to his chest. And sometimes Sam’s lapping at his hand, nibbling his fingertips, and he’ll glance up and just for a moment see an unguarded softness in Dean’s face. Sam sees longing there, a hunger equal to Sam’s own. 

“Well, whatever it is, you can have it.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He pulls a twenty out, leaves it on the table beside the last strip of bacon. “I gotta piss.”

#

When Dean almost-rudely ignores the long-legged morgue assistant who’s throwing herself at him, Sam thinks he might cry. Or throw Dean onto a gurney and start humping his leg, which would probably be a misdemeanor and would definitely get him punched. But really—it’s been weeks, and if Dean doesn’t find them someone soon, Sam’s going to have to—going to—well—okay, jerk off alone and then be really snappish at Dean the next day. Damn.

They ditch the morgue and spend six hours stalking around in the woods until the Goatman sneaks up behind them and steps on a twig. Dean hits it in the chest with a couple slugs from the shotgun, and it sort of _explodes_. And now Sam has Goatman entrails hanging off of him. Sam _hates it_ when he gets covered in entrails. 

“First shower,” he growls, and makes a beeline for the bathroom the moment they’re back in the motel. 

Sam relaxes under the hot water, tells himself the case is over, they’ll move on, find some bar tomorrow, find a girl—maybe a guy—and it’ll be good. _Hmm_. Sam slides a hand down over his belly, wraps it around his dick—and notices that he still has Goatman under his fingernails. “God _damn it_!” He shuts off the water. 

“… Sam?” comes a hesitant voice from the other room.

“I am taking away your gun and giving you _pepper spray_ ,” Sam says as he scrubs furiously at his nails over the sink. “Except you’d probably just _blind me_ with it.” 

Sam stalks into the other room, towel around his waist, ready for Dean to cuff him upside the head and tell him to duck faster. When no physical or verbal abuse is forthcoming, Sam looks up from where he’s searching for clean boxers and looks at Dean. _Oh_. 

Dean’s eyes are locked somewhere south of Sam’s navel. 

Sam’s seriously considering dropping his towel when Dean swallows and turns to the bathroom. “Better not have left guts in the drain, bitch.” 

Sam settles into bed, vengefully deciding to forgo boxers and sleep naked. Dean’s probably jerking off in the shower _right now_. Bastard. And now Sam’s thinking about Dean jerking off. _Fuck_.

Sam flops fretfully onto his stomach and shoves his face in the pillow. And he’s totally sleeping, totally _not_ thinking about wet freckled skin, when the bathroom door swings open and Dean pads back into the dark room. His steps pause near the end of Sam’s bed. If Dean apologizes, Sam’s going to—going to—

The mattress dips. 

Sam recovers from one heart attack only to have another when he feels Dean crawling up the bed, coming to kneel over Sam. He feels the sheet tugged away from his ass, and then Dean’s warm, bare thighs are bracketing Sam’s own. 

Sam can’t help squirming a little as he waits for Dean’s touch—but it never comes. Instead, he hears the familiar slide of Dean’s hand over his own dick. Sam’s thoughts are caught between _oh for fuck’s sake_ and _nnnggghhhh_. 

Fine. Dean wants it like this, this is how he’ll get it. 

Sam squirms a little more. He feels Dean’s legs tighten against him. Sam starts up an unhurried rhythm of his own, grinding against the sheets, gentle rise and fall of his hips. Doesn’t do much for Sam’s dick, but what matters is how it looks to Dean—Sam trapped beneath him, writhing, slow flex of his ass and arch of his spine. Dean’s hand is faster now, Sam can hear it, wishes he could see. Wishes he could feel. 

Sam moans, and hears Dean’s breath catch. Sam can hardly believe Dean’s restraint, so close to Sam but not touching, not so much as running a hand over his ass, not sliding his dick against it, or fucking between Sam’s thighs, or thrusting inside of him, finally _taking_ what Sam would freely give him. 

When Dean comes, it’s warm and wet all over Sam, streaking the skin of his ass and his lower back. Sam shivers, feels bereft as Dean climbs off of him. 

Dean is under the covers in his own bed by the time Sam regains his faculties. Sam considers his situation—he has Dean’s come cooling on his ass, a hard cock, and a captive audience. 

So he reaches back and coats his hand with Dean’s come, as much as he can get, and rolls over, his arousal on display in the dark room. Sam knows what Dean must expect, so he teases for a moment, lifts his hand to his face, lingers—and then spreads his legs. He hears a stuttered breath from the other bed that turns to a choking noise when Sam’s hand drops between his own thighs. 

Sam’s slick fingers press easily past the initial tightness, first one, then two. He pushes his long fingers deep, putting Dean’s come right where it belongs. There’s a quiet, wet sound as Sam twists his fingers, moves them experimentally. It’s a strange feeling, but Sam thinks he likes it. He thinks about Dean’s come slicking his insides, concentrates on how his body stretches around the thickness of his fingers, feels a little spasm of tightness when he thinks about taking Dean’s cock. 

At that, Sam starts up a slow thrust, in and out, and that feels even better. Sam shivers, feeling Dean’s gaze on him. His cock is almost painfully hard, smearing precome against his belly, and Sam wants relief but doesn’t want to distract from the show. 

When Sam pushes in a third sticky finger, the pressure inside him shifts, and Sam can’t hold back a shout at the jolt of pleasure. He moves his fingers again, just so, and _fuck_. Apparently Sam’s found his prostate, and he thinks this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

Sam begins fingerfucking himself in earnest, driving panting breaths out of his chest, sending his knees splaying wider. Dean must be getting one hell of a view, and Sam plays right into it—rocks eagerly against his own hand, lets his mouth fall open softly, allows every fleeting moment of bliss and discomfort and discovery to show on his face. The sounds coming out of Sam aren’t even intentional, barely-there rumblings forced out of him by each move of his hand. 

And Dean’s making these _noises_ , maybe doesn’t even realize it himself. A particularly hard thrust has Sam bucking against his hand and he hears, “Jesus _Christ_ , Sammy,” Dean’s voice hushed and awed, and that’s when Sam comes—throat arched up to the ceiling, head slammed against the pillow, eyes rolling back, mouth open wide. 

“Dean,” Sam says, voice ragged in the stillness. He doesn’t get an answer. 

Sam pulls his fingers out with a wet _squelch_ , and gets a moan.

#

When Sam finally loses his patience, they’re finishing up a case in Elm Hill Cemetery—the bones are torched, the grave’s filled in, it’s starting to rain, and Sam backs Dean up against a mausoleum and fists two hands in his shirtfront.

“Christo,” Dean says, wide-eyed. Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“You’re stupid,” Sam says.

“Yeah, but I’m pretty,” Dean says automatically, then scowls. “What the fuck, Sam?”

“You’re _stupid_ ,” Sam says. “You want it. I _know_ you want it.”

Dean’s face shuts down, wiped clean of expression. “I want a cheese steak and some late-night cable and to stop standing in the rain, dude. Back off.” 

Sam leans in and tries to capture Dean’s mouth, and ends up on his ass in the mud, cheekbone smarting, with Dean standing over him looking beyond pissed, looking—scared, Sam realizes. Dean looks fucking terrified.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” 

And Sam’s a little stuck for words, because he’s not sure how much clearer he can be. “Dean—”

But Dean’s already trudging through the mud toward the car, his shoulders hunched with unhappiness. 

The gears are working in Sam’s head. Dean is afraid. Dean wants him. Sam’s been fucking Dean’s girls for the better part of a year, licking up his come for months, and somehow Dean doesn’t know what Sam wants. 

Sam remembers, now, that first night—how Dean was the one who reached out a hand to Sam, gave him what he needed. And something clicks. 

Sam remembers footsie in the diner and necking in the back seat and goddamn deep-fried Twinkies, and wonders when exactly he got so stupid. 

 

The bruise must be showing on Sam’s cheek by now, and Sam never denied being a manipulative bastard, so he makes sure Dean gets a good long look at it. He tries to get through the door to their room at the same moment Dean does, forces them to share the tight space of the doorframe. Sam meets Dean’s eyes and feels the tension tugging between them. Dean manages to look contrite and turned-on at the same time. It’s a feat. 

Sam showers the grave dirt off slowly, brushes his teeth. Looks at his bruise in the mirror and pushes at it just to feel it hurt. 

While Dean’s in the shower, Sam slides into bed. He waits. 

Sam’s hopes are fulfilled when Dean leaves the bathroom stark naked, and his heart skips a beat when Dean doesn’t head straight to his own bed, but comes to stand beside Sam’s. Sam plays by the rules, feigns sleep, says nothing. 

And Dean—Dean starts jerking off. Right over Sam’s face. 

For about five seconds Sam’s insulted—what is he, a porn star?—and then he’s tipping his face up, _fuck yes_. 

Dean’s hand is moving fast, not pretty, not putting on a show. Sam fists his hands in the sheets and breathes raggedly, wonders if Dean can feel Sam’s breath on his cock, just inches away. 

Dean moves faster, muscles in his thighs and belly starting to tense, getting close—and Sam lunges. He gets his mouth on Dean’s cock, just the head, and _sucks_. And Dean, too close, slams forward with a choked sound, pushing the rest of the way into Sam’s mouth. He comes shuddering, fingers laced in Sam’s hair, pulling Sam closer. 

Sam licks gently, laps up the last of Dean’s come. Sam’s mouth chases after when Dean pulls away, but then Dean says, “ _Sammy_ ,” and he’s staggering back, legs going out from under him as he collapses on his own bed. 

Dean looks like he’s been shot, and Sam would know. He stares at Sam. 

Dean looks and sounds so broken. And Sam wants to spend every day for the rest of his life fixing him. 

Sam swallows. Licks his lips, tastes Dean. Decides. 

He goes to Dean’s bed and pushes him down against the pillows, meeting little resistance. He pulls the covers up around Dean and that earns him a “ _Dude_ ,” and an irritable swat. Sam grins like a fucking loon, because he loves this cocky, rude, occasionally disgusting man so much he’s dizzy with it. 

Sam slides beneath the covers and lies on his side facing Dean, keeping a chaste distance. Dean lets his breath out in a rush, shuts his eyes. 

“You get arthritic,” Sam says. 

“ _What_?” That’s enough to startle Dean into looking up at Sam. 

“You get arthritic,” he repeats. “And I throw my back out.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Is this a freaky psychic thing?”

“Nope,” Sam says, and he inches closer to Dean on the sheets. “We both lose our six-packs and you need reading glasses and my hair starts going gray.”

“So this isn’t a freaky psychic thing.”

Sam ignores him. “And our bones ache, so we get a big bed, plenty of space so I don’t kick you in the night, and lots of pillows because you like extras.” 

The skeptical furrow of Dean’s brow has softened to confusion. “Sam?”

“You asked me what I want from you, Dean.” Sam inches closer again, till he can feel Dean’s breath warm against his face. “I want a big bed.” 

Dean stares at him for a moment, then seems to collect himself. “Dude.” His voice is hoarse. “You kick me in the night and I’ll make you sleep on the couch.” 

Sam closes the distance between them, and this time Dean kisses back. 

When Sam wraps his arms around Dean, he’s warm and strong, and Sam would be happy to lie here all night necking like teenagers. Except when _Sam_ was a teenager he was jerking off to the memory of the taste of Dean’s come, and Sam remembers and laughs against Dean’s mouth. 

Dean grumbles against him, “What’re you laughing at,” and Sam just keeps kissing him, slow and deep. 

Sam goes along both of their bodies eliminating the negative space in between, from foreheads leaned together to lips brushing to Dean’s heart beating against his chest to Dean’s dick that Sam looks forward to getting to know and Dean’s bowlegs and even their toes are brushing against each other, and Sam thinks to himself _footsie in the diner_ and another joyful laugh bursts out at that. 

“You keep laughin’, I’m gonna get a complex,” Dean says, but his face is honest and open and unafraid and it steals Sam’s breath away. 

“Dean,” Sam whispers. “ _Dean_.” And he buries his face in Dean’s neck, feels Dean’s arms come up around him, palms spread across Sam’s back. Sam works a knee between Dean’s legs, pushes until he can entangle their legs and fit himself perfectly against Dean. He’s been hard since he walked in the door, and he _needs_ , and before he can figure out how to ask for it, Dean’s hands are grasping Sam’s ass, his thigh, and pulling him in, then releasing, pulling again. 

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam groans deep and lets his body take up that rhythm, Dean’s hands still encouraging him. “There you go, that’s right, Sam, that’s good.”

And Sam jerks against Dean at the affirmation, and in daylight hours will never, ever admit what Dean’s praise does to him, and he licks along the freckles on Dean’s neck and thinks _this is mine to have_. It’s the best sex he’s ever had, rubbing off against Dean like a hormonal fifteen-year-old, like he should’ve done when he was fifteen and got his very first taste of Dean. 

“Sam,” Dean says roughly, “God, _Sammy_.” Dean hitches a leg up and over Sam’s thigh, tugs him closer, and when Sam comes, shuddering breath against Dean’s skin, it’s a release that’s nearly ten years in the making. 

Sam’s sweaty and sticky and covered in his own come. He has no desire to move, ever. So he doesn’t. 

 

When sunrise fills the room with light, it finds them sleeping skin to skin, as entwined as any two people could be. Sam wakes and cracks an eye open, feels Dean’s body melted against him, remembers _this is real_. He nestles closer into the crook of Dean’s shoulder and goes back to sleep, exactly where he’s always belonged.


End file.
